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Chapter Text

A distinct patter accompanies bare feet running over cold marble, not altogether soft yet faint with each thump. The lady of the house is scampering down the hall in a state of undress, livid with herself for not rising at daybreak. Her dark blue robe threatens to slide off her shoulders as she makes her way from her bedchamber to the master suite.

This is a self-inflicted inconvenience.

It’s been a few weeks since Treize decided to move her things over to the bedroom they should be sharing as a married couple.

Lady Une did not follow. After all, she never vowed to be obedient. Considering all the times she defied him in a professional capacity, he should have anticipated this.

At this time, they are at a stalemate. Her entire trousseau now lives in his walk-in closet, leaving her only with dressing gowns and night clothes for the trunk in her chambers. Every morning, she drags herself to his—no, their legally shared marital asset of a door.

Dressing in his presence is nothing new and he’s never been one to linger or leer.

Maybe she should be worried about that.

She stumbles across the threshold, making a beeline for the closet. Kneeling, she pulls open several drawers, eyes raking over their contents as she seeks a neutral pair of hose. She winds up pulling inky sheer stockings with black lace trim; contemplating the convenience of putting them on over taking the time to seek a more modest choice.

A knock at the door almost makes her jump.

"Begging your pardon, milady," declares a young woman's strained voice from outside. "His Excellency is demanding your presence."

Une's stomach drops. Well, that really leaves her with little recourse now. She doesn't have time to fuss.

"I'll be right there," she calls out.

"Aye, ma'am."

Please hurry is implied by the sound of the maid scurrying to deliver Une's answer to the breakfast table.

With a sigh, Une pulls on her stockings, securing them with a garter-belt. It's the least amount of polish she has at her disposal, covering the faint scarring and slight bristle on her legs. She combs her fingers through her long chestnut hair before tossing it over her shoulder. At least she had the prudence to brush it as soon as she woke; one less thing to worry about. She steps into a pair of navy silk slippers before rushing back into the hallway.

In her head, she rehearses an apology. She would have at least cinched herself into a day dress if he hadn't called so suddenly. Thankfully, there's no urgent business outside the manor today. She doesn't have to contemplate an outfit that plays well for the press. Her wardrobe is half-fanciful, half-austere; and she's not quite sure what her husband prefers despite him picking out most of it.

The new year presented her with a whole slew of responsibilities. Setting her agenda, she seeks to petition the ESUN for an overhaul of its department of veterans affairs. She needs the nascent government to accommodate an influx of former OZ soldiers; reintegrate them back into civilian life. Eager oligarchs are poaching disaffected servicemen for private armies, gearing up to make plays for power. The last thing she wants is to leave her former subordinates with no choice but to sell their souls.

And then there's slash-and-burn; her latest endeavor to destabilize burgeoning autocracies and starve out war profiteers. They can't start fires if she deprives them of kindling first. It's a challenge figuring out how to strike economically rather than with force.

Bankrupting a principality here, triggering an embargo there. Never a dull moment.

Last she heard, the Barton Foundation was on the brink of collapse from a lack of labor and machinery to serve its construction projects. Over the past year, Une made certain none of OZ's decommissioned assets—man or metal—fell through the cracks and into unworthy hands.

It would be naïve of her to even consider this undertaking on her own. She's all too aware that her continued success hinges on Treize's wealth and influence. Otherwise, she would be petitioning for grants and subsidies like a pauper. If she chose to shoulder this burden alone, funding her efforts would be a constant concern. No doubt she would be destitute; leaving her at the mercy of the new world government and their whims. With Treize at her side, she has far more latitude to do as she pleases.

He's doing more than his part, traveling all over the globe to propagandize their efforts. This morning actually marks his return from one such trip, and she knows she risks alienating his affection in failing to meet dawn at his side.

After all, the nobility deems it gauche to lust after one's own wife. Despite his reassurances, she's certain he could replace her on a whim. Being useful can only take her so far. She needs to assimilate; gain acceptance from all the tenants she's meant to prevail upon as duchess.

It's been…interesting.

When last she strolled through the village, the elders pushed a jar of dark red liquid on her as a token of their hospitality.

A morning libation for the new bride. It's tradition.

Une's maid would later blush up to her ears, trying to explain the tonic to her mistress.

An old wives' tale, ma'am. Something to stoke passion; keep you pretty in the eyes of—not saying you aren't already pretty, ma'am. Of course, not that. The villagers just—

—don't understand why he would settle for someone so shrill.

Une filled in the blanks on her own, simply nodding when her maid's voice dropped to a whisper.

Should we discard it, ma'am?

No, I'll sip some with breakfast.

The lot of them downstairs would whisper about it if she threw out such a gift. As of now, they often fall into a conspiratorial hush whenever she walks by, buzzing amongst themselves as soon as she's out of earshot. This is an opportunity to ingratiate herself with the commoners, and she isn't about to pour a gesture of good will down the drain.

Somehow, she manages to maintain her balance while descending the stairs. Upon arriving at the dining hall, her eyes immediately fall on the crystal goblet of tonic— shimmering ruby red —next to her plate. It seems her staff is keen on holding her to the custom she agreed to honor. Easy enough to address. She has more pressing worries.

Ridiculous as it might be, she curtsies in her robe, refusing to meet her husband's gaze.

"Apologies for the delay, Your Excellency. I should have been better prepared for your return."

His exasperated sigh carries from the head of the table. She realizes she's slipped in addressing him yet again. Several weeks have come and gone since he convinced her to remain his wife past Christmas, yet she still has difficulty calling him by name.

"You do realize we share equivalent titles?" he chides, standing to greet her.

Une's face burns with embarrassment at his courtesy. "Regardless, I defer—"

"You defer to no one."

It's difficult not to read the tone of his voice as admonition. Biting her lip, she offers a silent nod before claiming her seat to his right. Best to dive straight into discussing the current state of the world they're looking to shape. Why else would he have summoned her so urgently?

"Yugoslavia is re-asserting itself with a family of incestuous pretenders playing on royalist sympathies," she begins, forcing herself to meet his piercing blue stare as he settles back into his chair. "To the east, we have New Ceylon trying to establish itself as an independent republic. And of course, there are tensions in the Pacific over deep sea mining rights in highly-contested waters. I've lost track of all the nations involved in the fray. My latest report sheds a bit more light on last week's terrorist attack in Batavia and—"

"That can wait."

Yet again, he leaves her chastened.

"Begging your pardon," she interjects. "If that's the case, why did you have me dispense with the pleasantries?"

"On the contrary, I'm here primarily for pleasantries. Formalities, however, are unnecessary."

"A bit early for semantics."

"It's half past eleven. We're shifting from breakfast into luncheon. I was concerned when your lady's maid told me you didn't wake."

Concerned? It seems today is going to be a deep dive into all her shortcomings. She surveys the view out the Palladian windows spanning the length of the room. Snow melts off bare tree branches, sloughing off in thick clods. The sun has already climbed high.

"I know I don't deserve to hold this position," she murmurs, unfolding her cloth napkin with a quick flick of the wrist. She uses it as a welcome excuse to avert her gaze, smoothing the white linen out over her lap. "Castigate me, if you must."

Every day, she wonders why he hasn't taken the opportunity to dismiss her. Perhaps his latest trip enlightened him to the advantages of reclaiming bachelorhood.

"My love, last time you didn't rise, I feared you were gone. You'll have to forgive a poor man's folly."

He reaches out to tilt her chin up; a flash of gold on his ring finger catching the light.

So he decided to wear it after all.

Before he left, she took the opportunity to behave as a nobleman's wife should, packing his suitcase for him. It wouldn't be the first time. Back in OZ, she was the only one he trusted to go through his things, making sure no bugs or tracking devices accompanied him on his journeys. Folding his shirts proved almost nostalgic.

It also allowed her the chance to compensate for meeting him empty-handed at Christmas.

Before she sent Treize on his way, she tucked a small velvet box into one of his socks. At a loss for words, she simply wrote 'reimbursement' on the paper tag affixed to it. It wasn't much of an offering; a plain golden band with the fine-line engraving of a bow on the inner curve.

A ring to match the dainty golden bow he slipped on her finger at Christmas Eve.

His acceptance quells some of her insecurity. If he were seeking a mistress, he wouldn't be wearing his wife's favor. Then again, considering the philandering culture of the elites, she can't be certain of a wedding band's efficacy as an adequate deterrent.

Besides, who's to say he didn't start wearing it until he got home? She was far too anxious to watch his press conferences. Proper decorum usually calls for gloves and—

"You're spiraling, dear. It's written all over your face."

Is she that patently obvious?

Seeking to soothe her nerves, she reaches for a sip of tonic, hoping the concoction might offer some sort of calm. The chilled goblet meets her lips, coating her tongue with the floral sweetness of honey. Tart cherry cordial thins the drink, balancing out the taste. It's…bright.

"Started the day off on the wrong foot," she mutters, picking up her fork to pierce a loose grape on her plate. "That's all."

She's always opted for a modest breakfast; just enough food to keep her stomach from turning. A waste of talent for the chef in residence.

Well, they did make attempts at some flourish.

Her rye toast is always served in triangles, covered in a translucent sheen of butter. Thin slices of hothouse apricot fan out like flower petals, complementing the golden filigree pattern on the antique porcelain. Green grapes gleam in a small bunch, nestled next to a wedge of brie.

It may not seem like much but after weeks of following doctor's orders and only eating bland food in varying shades of white, this is borderline indulgent.

"I suppose I should take it as a commendation that you find my idleness unsettling," she sighs, forcing a smile. He did call for proper pleasantries. "How was your trip?"

"Hollow," he answers, rapping his knuckle on the tabletop. The sleeves on his white dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, lending him a more casual air despite the aristocratic contempt he projects. He's likely worn down from the cavalcade of sycophants he was obligated to entertain. It's her privilege as his wife to see him without a cravat at his neck; relaxed enough to look a little sloppy. Only dregs and crumbs remain on his breakfast plate; his knife and fork rest parallel to signal the end of his meal.

Guilt washes over her. She wonders how long he put off eating before deciding to proceed without her. There's hardly a swallow left in his teacup. Une debates standing for the bell-pull right as Treize's butler announces himself to clear the table. Sinking into her chair, she endures the awkwardness of sitting in her robe and stockings with a mostly untouched plate in front of her.

To his credit, the butler doesn't bat an eye at her state of undress. He refreshes his master's tea before promptly asking her if there's anything she requires.

Shaking her head, she tries to summon some authority into her tone. "Not at all, Tacitus."

If there's anything she takes pride in, it's never forgetting a name. A slight smile curves the butler's lips as he nods his assent, leaving her to mind her breakfast.

She takes another sip from her goblet, wondering how much more humiliation she'll be bringing down on her own head. Turning to her husband, she tries to pick up where they left off. "The papers painted it as some grand undertaking."

"As they're wont to do," he nods. "A veneer of gentility does wonders for civil servants peddling influence for coin."

She understands the implication; more politicians in his pocket. "Your powers of persuasion are inimitable."

"Yet I was unable to convince you to join me."

Buying herself time, she finally begins to eat in earnest. Though taking a knife and fork to her toast is unnecessary, she chooses to cut it into tiny morsels, channeling her anxiety onto her plate.

"It would have been counterproductive," she responds, focused on spearing a slice of apricot to join the bit of rye already skewered on her fork.

He prods on. "How so?"

Taking small bites, she does her best to delay. There's a strange warmth blooming in her chest, making her heart ache. An astringent dryness manifests itself on her tongue. Clearing her throat, she takes a quick swig from her goblet. "I don't labor under the delusion that the nobility will ever accept me into their fold. My presence would have diminished you."

"I beg to differ," he asserts, reaching to rest his hand on her forearm. "It would have been a lot less dreary if I had your hand to hold."

The sensation of his touch hits her like static, startling her into dropping her knife. It lands on the marble floor with a loud clang, echoing throughout the cavernous dining hall.

"Must it be my hand in yours?" she snaps, lashing out in frustration. "I'm sure there was no shortage of eligible young noblewomen vying for your attention."

She leans down to pick up her knife, ducking out of view. To her surprise, he bends to meet her gaze beneath the table, frowning at her.

"Soft-handed debutantes," he scoffs. "Surely, you jest."

"The least of them would be more acceptable than I."

An unpleasant memory steals aboard her train of thought, screeching in the back of her mind.

That one hedonistic summer.

He had her ushering a different woman out of his chambers every other day; dressing them and making sure they signed their NDAs. She suspected that he had screwed his way through every blue-blooded brown-eyed brunette within reach.

Except her. Though she met the physical qualifications he seemed to favor, she was a woman of little importance.

Besides, they were strictly professional then.

She hadn't even understood why she cried herself to sleep when one of his paramours called her 'a beauty wasted on the battlefield.' Being struck would have been preferable to kindness from a woman he favored over her.

There was no pain quite like being in the throes of limerence; lamenting an unreasonable infatuation constantly crawling beneath her skin. Une watered her wounded pride until it sprouted into resentment toward anyone who didn't fit her arbitrary criteria for being worthy of Treize's attentions.

Herself included.

With her mind still spinning, she rights herself, setting the dirty knife off to the side. There goes one of her only implements to fidget.

Leaning close to her, Treize tucks a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear. "After all this time, you still doubt me?"

Une winces, both hands clutching the napkin on her lap, fingernails digging into the weave of the linen. Her heart is thundering in her chest. A feverish heat ebbs and flows within her, making her break out into a cold sweat. She needs to leave now, to lie down in the dark and scream into a pillow.

She says the worst possible thing.

"I doubt the integrity of this marriage that binds us."

Any other man would have been stunned into silence, granting her the opportunity to flee. Before she can even begin to rise, Treize takes her by the shoulders, forcing her to stay seated. "In what regard, my lady?"

A heavy fog settles over her thoughts, drowning out restraint and inhibition. She's already made a mess of things. Voicing her frustration couldn't possibly make it worse. He's probably already made up his mind to leave her.

"Habitual recognition," she alleges, calling intimacy by the same dry term stipulated in their marriage contract.

That was enough to stun him.

"We complied with recognition," he blurts. "Twice."

"Before the vows," she says through clenched teeth. "This marriage remains unconsummated."

"On a technicality I can promptly address."

She fails to suppress a gasp at his audacity. Ever since her failure at his homecoming, she was convinced he was repulsed by her. Though he often kissed and held her, it never went further than that. She knows it must have disgusted him to see her at her weakest.

Then why does he keep asking me to share his bed?

A slight ringing in her ears accompanies that intrusive thought. His insistence was a lark, surely. To make certain of his disdain before abandoning her. He left that provision in the contract to give himself an easy way out.

Even though, at this time, it seems wanting to be free of her is the last thing on his mind.

"D- don't be absurd," she stammers. "You shackled yourself to me without a pre-nup. I could destroy you."

All this trust I don't deserve.

"But you won't."

Looking into his bright blue eyes, she can almost bring herself to believe him. She wants nothing more than to close the distance between them; savor the softness of his mouth on hers, run her fingers through the gold of his hair.

"You can't know that," she contends, jerking out of his hold and getting to her feet. "I don't know that. If I were to shatter again—"

"You'll be within arm's reach. I'll hold you together."

The best liar the world has ever seen; being earnest about his love for her.

A delusion of grandeur if there ever was one.

She chokes back tears, annoyed at being unable to regulate herself. "Your fondness for broken things will be the death of you."

"A pleasant death, indeed," he declares, giving it the same dignity as a regal proclamation.

"Treize, I can't."

And in that moment, she surprises herself, speaking his name with relative ease. Still seated, he grabs her wrist before she can walk away.

"Get on the table," he commands.

Despite the softness in his voice, there's no mistaking that tone. No ambiguity.

A direct order.

Chapter Text

Lady Une stops dead in her tracks, pulse thrumming against his palm as he grips her wrist. There's no mistaking his intent. Does she comply or prove herself mercurial? A wife should be constant; never wavering in her devotion. Her free hand rises to trace the bullet scar on her chest, and she wonders how much her heart can take.

It isn't as if I don't want him.

She takes one step back.

In truth, resisting him is the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

His hold on her wrist goes slack, letting her slip free.

I was already his long before those vows were spoken.

Another retreating step; the edge of the table meets the small of her back and she drags herself up to claim her perch. From this new vantage point, she towers over him in his chair. She lets her silk slippers fall from her feet. Her stockinged legs dangle within his reach.

Tension simmers in the quiet that stretches between them. Looking down on him feels…strange. Like a reversal of the natural order. She's always been the one to put him on a pedestal.

Staring up at her, he rests his hands on her hips. Her breath hitches as she braces to capitulate with grace. Slowly, he lowers his face to her lap, pressing his cheek to her thigh.

Closing his eyes, he stills.

Une's hesitant touch soon tangles in his hair, coasting slow, drawing a pleased sigh from him. Were they ordinary people, this might be mistaken for wedded bliss.

She understands his gesture for what it is; baring his neck to her, letting her stroke the column of his throat. Her fingers skim his jaw, ghosting over his lips. In this indulgent silence, their world ceases to turn.

"What would you have of me?" she whispers.

He tilts his head, blinking to peer up at her.

"Safe harbor," he confesses.

His hold retreats from her hips as he collects himself; rising from her lap, standing to meet her face to face. The hunger in his stare lights a fire in her belly. Leaning in slow, she invites him to close the distance. His mouth is soon on hers, beckoning her to open to him. The taste of honeyed cherry lingers on her tongue, elevating each kiss.

Last time they were like this, it was on MO-II. She had barely managed to intervene—between him and death by beam cannon—when he brought her back to the satellite. She never told him of the mad dash she had taken to get to him: how she had stumbled through hospital corridors on atrophied legs, bullying an orderly into summoning her subordinates so she could launch. With the reduced gravity on MO-II, she was able to feign stability, emulating something resembling a normal gait.

She wouldn't have been allowed to serve him if she let him see her as delicate.

It worked to her advantage when he fucked her against the wall of her quarters. He picked her up, relieving her of having to maintain her balance. The second time he had her proved to be more of a challenge. It took everything in her to climb atop him in his sick bay bed.

On Earth, gravity favors his determination. The weight of him begins to push her down. Beneath her, the tablecloth shifts as she begins to lie back. Her arms loop around him, pulling him in. All the while, his lips never leave hers.

A smashing sound carries through the dining hall, startling her into breaking her embrace.

Treize steals a glance over his shoulder, heaving a heavy sigh. In his haste, he sent his teacup and saucer falling to the floor, dashing porcelain all over the marble.

"I was never particularly fond of that china pattern."

He beams at her, almost boyish.

Une rolls her eyes in mock offense. "And here I am; delaying having to pick a new one out."

Undeterred, he leans in to kiss his way up her throat, speaking softly in her ear. "We'll have to address that dereliction of duty."

"Not until after we address yours."

Rising to her provocation, he lifts the hem of the nightgown beneath her robe, hiking one of her thighs up, digging his fingernails into her flesh and the lace trim on her stocking. She whimpers beneath him; the stiffness of his erection pressing against her through his trousers. The silk of her underwear has never felt more constraining.

It's torture when he begins shifting atop her, generating friction between fabric, denying her relief. She clutches at the tablecloth, crumpling at it to cope.

The goblet by her plate topples over, spilling crimson all over the fine sheet of cotton. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches red bleed into white, harkening to a time when brides exemplified virtue with a stain proving the ruin of a maidenhead. Though Une is no maiden, watching the cherry tint creep into the threads still fascinates her.

As if sensing her distraction, Treize grazes her bullet scar with his teeth, puckering his mouth around it, introducing slight suction. She should have known he wouldn't suffer looking at another man's mark on her; not in the light of day.

Against her better judgment, she encourages him. She combs her fingers through his hair—stroking gently at the nape of his neck—savoring the sensation of him almost drawing blood. The bruising from his bite would overshadow the scar for at least the rest of the week. He laves his tongue over the new distinction he's bestowed upon her; seeking to soothe, fixating on what he's wrought.

Beyond the dining hall windows, the gray sky dares to be bright. A well-lit gloom. Though obscured, the sun's rays still pierce through the overcast; a cigarette burn on silver film. The occasional gust of wind rattles bare branches. Nothing stirs beyond the slumbering trees that obscure the path into the gardens.

Une tries not to think too hard about the possibility of someone seeing her in this compromising position. Even if a trespasser does emerge, there's little scandal to be had from a married couple—doing what married couples do—within the privacy of their home.

She turns away from the dull blight of winter, looking up at the counterfeit sky painted on the ceiling, admiring the intricate brushstrokes feathering tufts of cloud into the expanse. In place of the sun, a grand chandelier hangs at the heart of the skyscape; dripping with thousands of crystals. Various shades of blue surround the spectacle, seeping into each other in a play of light and shadow. Cornice molding—in fine scrolls and curlicues gleaming gold—serves to frame the heavens. The surrounding walls accentuate the art; carved amber gilding parchment boiserie panels.

Her gaze is forced back onto her husband by the sound of stitches popping and silk ripping. It seems he lacks the patience for unclasping her garter-belt before pulling her underwear down her legs.

"That was part of a set," she huffs.

"I'll buy you as many new sets as you're willing to model for me."

There isn't the slightest hint of contrition in his voice. She glares at him, and he responds with a smug smirk before plunging his fingers inside her. A strangled cry falls from her lips. She succumbs to the languid rhythm he sets within her. Heat rises to color her cheeks upon hearing the wet sounds of her cunt covering his hand with the undeniable proof of her arousal.

Before she can beg him for more, he pushes himself off her, withdrawing his touch. The sudden emptiness leaves her wanting. His stare travels down her body splayed before him, appraising the havoc he's wrought. Does he intend to leave her unfulfilled? Fair play for all the times she denied him. She should—

He brings her stockinged legs together; dragging her back toward the edge of the table by her ankles, inducing an undignified yelp. The tablecloth sticks to the back of her silk robe; rippling like water, moving with her. She watches her goblet drip its last beads of red as it rolls to the floor in a sparkling smash. Her plate teeters on the edge, spilling loose grapes off the side of the table before taking its inevitable dive.

Treize pays the mess no mind, settling back into his seat. He parts Une's legs, positioning each of them to hang on the upholstered wooden arms of his chair.

Is he really going to—

He buries his head between her thighs, eliciting a moan that catches in her throat. The warmth of his tongue is a welcome intrusion; lapping at her sex, seeking her clit. She betrays herself with a scream once he finds his target; her legs quivering as they dangle off the sides of the cushioned armrests. Her fingers curl into the crumpled cotton under her, clutching tight as she begins to unravel.

Hoping to subdue herself, she lifts her gaze back up to the false sky. The painted clouds above her seem to drift now; shaping themselves into curls of smoke and billowing banners silvered by regolith. Swirls of ash engulf her line of sight, plunging her into gray.

Battles long past. Bases long fallen. Death loomed large the last time he was inside her. She shuts her eyes tight, trying to blink the war away.

Come back to me.

His voice echoes in her thoughts; and she's not quite sure if it's a memory resurfacing or if he's whispering into her mind. Biting her lip, she tries to comply, peering down to see his face still buried in her cunt. If he had spoken to her, it wasn't with his mouth.

This happened before—the first time he took her on MO-II, she could have sworn she heard him reverberating through her skull. At the time, she blamed it on the rush of adrenaline coursing through her. An auditory hallucination. Now, she's not quite sure.

Their reunion then was under strange circumstances. It was a vision that roused her to race to his side. It wouldn't be out of the question to assume they're bound together by some celestial tether, able to understand each other without rendering sound.

As if to demand her attention, Treize massages her shaky limbs. His palms run up and down the smoothness of her stockings, making the flesh beneath prickle. One of his hands cradles the back of her knee, thumb tracing circles into the hollow, making her jolt. It seems he's privy to secret sensitivities she wasn't even aware of.

There's an insatiate energy to the way he lavishes her; a contrast to the practiced control he usually exemplifies while entertaining in this dining hall. Her cheeks flush. The sound of his relentless slurping and sucking strains her command over her own body. She twists on the table as his tongue surges within her. Orgasm washes over her without warning, sending fevered shudders radiating down to her toes and fingertips. The deluge robs her of breath, stifling her cries into gasps.

He lifts his head and rises from his seat, pushing his chair back. Une's legs slide off the armrests; hanging off the edge of the table. She wonders if this is when he'll choose to leave, abandoning the idea of consummation after toying with her. It's a cruel game noblemen love to play; offering the illusion of affection only to snatch it back once their quarry submits.

His shadow falls upon her and the back of his knuckle caresses her cheek, rising to wipe the faint sheen limning her lower lashes. The ring on his finger glimmers warm gold despite the subdued sunlight. She winces, swallowing her sorrow.

Defying her expectations, he undoes the belt on her robe with a deft tug, fully revealing the nightgown underneath. He presses a kiss to her shoulder, urging her to peel the sleeves from her arms. Though it involves a bit of a squirm, she manages to shed the dressing gown, pinning the garment under her.

The temerity in his grin is unmistakable.

Wide-eyed, she watches him palm her breasts through thin powder blue satin, compelling her to arch into his touch. The wetness of his mouth finds her nipples through the fabric, lapping at her through the barrier. He leaves behind sodden splotches on thinly veiled points visible through her negligee, betraying the persistence of her desire.

It's clear he's drawing things out. He's still fully-dressed as he hikes the hem of her nightgown further up to reveal her belly. Self-conscious, she tries to tug it back down, shaking her head. It wasn't that long ago when bruises mottled her stomach in garish purple. Even as they healed, the sickly greens and yellows were terrible to behold. The marks have faded to nothing now but she still tenses at the idea of anybody touching her where she was kicked into submission.

The futility of that attack still has her bitter. It was unnecessary. She couldn't bear Treize an heir even if she wanted to.

And she doesn't want to.

Treize knew where she stood when he married her. He knows she'll end his bloodline unless he decides to stray.

And she's given him every opportunity to stray.

The softness of his lips caresses her navel; a silent plea. He fidgets, unclasping one of the suspenders on her garter-belt, taut elastic briefly whipping against her skin. Does she grant him a concession or deflect? Up or down?

Cautiously, she pulls her negligee the rest of the way up, relinquishing control. Her stomach rises and falls with each breath she takes to calm herself. Moving up her body, he trails kisses over the ghosts of her bruises, seeking to supersede her pain with tenderness. His reverence is almost unsettling, steeping her in unfamiliar mirth.

He continues his ascent, still standing as he hovers over her. His mouth drifts to her neck before nibbling at her ear. "You try my patience past bearing," he whispers, sending a chill down her spine. "Do I strike you as negligent?"

"N-not in the least," she croaks, voice strained.

"Then let me inside you," he coaxes, encouraging her to sit up, guiding her hand to the waistband of his trousers.

Buttons. So many buttons. Nobility, ever archaic, favors buttons over the ease of a zipper. Her hands shake, leading her to fumble tugging at the top fastening. As she tries to focus on her task, her fingers brush against the rigid length of his erection, drawing sharp breaths from him.

It wasn't this hard on MO-II.

"Yes, it was," he grits out, making her wonder if she slipped and spoke her frustration aloud.

"I meant difficult," she retorts, managing to unfasten three buttons in rapid succession. His uniform trousers were definitely easier to handle than these dress pants. She recognizes the texture of the fabric; a warm wool blend she packed him for both style and utility—perfect for braving the cold outside, terrible for addressing the burgeoning heat between them.

Once she finally gets all the buttons undone, he moves upon her in a dizzying flurry; pinning her back down and securing her hands over her head. Before long, his cock is gliding against the slickness of her arousal, teasing at her entrance. He could easily lay claim to her now, pushing into her in one easy motion.

He doesn't.

Instead, it seems his eyes are riveted to her face, watching frustration play out in the lines on her forehead and the tension in her jaw. Does he enjoy seeing her like this? Does he want her to beg so he can humiliate her with denial?

"You really think the worst of me, don't you?" he murmurs, warm breath wafting against her cheek.

"It's a general cynicism," she professes, writhing beneath him. She bites her lip to stifle a whimper, trying not to sound desperate. "I can't help it."

"I admit I've been a reprobate," he concedes, pushing into her just enough to make her moan. "But since we wed, your lips are the only font I hope to draw succor from; and I reckon you're willing to take me to task for the privilege."

The double entendre doesn't escape Une, scalding her cheeks with a scarlet flush. His declaration leaves her fraught with anxiety, puzzled by the servile softness in his tone. "What are you hoping to accomplish with all this pageantry?"

"An indisputable claim," he answers, driving deep into her with a sudden thrust. He plunders her mouth with a searing kiss, swallowing her scream.

There's a ritualistic aspect to the way he's fucking her on this table; corrupting something sacred, bestowing her with undeserved veneration. Centuries of grand gatherings graced this room before she devastated it with her presence. Generations of his family dined here, whispering over opulent meals. Now, he's debasing this hall with a lurid scene, sinking into her like nothing else matters.

She tastes herself on his tongue, reminding her of the depravity that started this excursion. Thus far, she hasn't been able to predict his course. Perhaps that's the greatest affront; him wounding her pride as a tactician. The relentlessness of his affection isn't something she planned for. It doesn't strike her as sustainable, yet he persists. As someone starved for love her entire life, she can only withstand this siege for so long. Her walls begin to crumble in the wake of his onslaught.

With him still restraining her, she's limited to bucking up against him, legs flailing to try and wrap around his waist. The pace he sets steals away all sense, rendering her unable to translate her thoughts into anything other than incoherent noises of pleasure. He vexes her, keeping her spread beneath him with jolts that shatter her concentration. Her teeth graze his lips as she kisses him, channeling her frustrations into robbing him of breath.

Coming up for air, he pants in her ear. "Far be it from me to deny you anything in this circumstance."

His grip slips from her wrists, releasing her. Well-practiced from dealing with his trousers, she gets to work on the infuriatingly smooth shell buttons adorning his placket. He shrugs his shirt off as soon as she gets it open, inviting her to touch him. Without hesitation, she lightly rakes her nails down his back, sending a shudder through him that pushes him deeper inside her.

Gasping, she clenches around his cock, trembling beneath him. A moment of clarity propels itself through the haze of lust. "Is it obligation that compels you?"

His movement ceases, and he pauses to look at her as though she's just asked him if clouds grow on trees. "Obligation doesn't stoke passion, my love. Not like this." As if to emphasize his point, he yanks at one of her garter-belt suspenders, pulling it loose with a snap that stings her thigh. "Don't mistake my impulsiveness for a lack of reason."

"I resent the suggestion," she hisses through clenched teeth. "It's not your impulsiveness that perplexes me."

She trusts him to know what has her ill at ease. Her insecurity is clear as day. She meets every gesture of his affection with skepticism, trying to anticipate when his love will twist into contempt.

"What would put your doubts to rest?"

He inquires as if making small talk, tone steady despite stirring within her. The question skewers her deeper than any of his probing thrusts. When she meets him with silence, he punctuates his inquiry by withdrawing from her body, leaving only the tip of his cock to glide against the lips of her sex. Before she can protest, he plunges back into her with enough force to make the table creak beneath them.

A sharp cry spills out of her in a pitch she was never able to hit at academy church choir.

"Selfishness," she confesses, choking back an undignified whine. "I would like to be allowed selfishness. To have all of you or nothing at all. An impossibility."

"I can accommodate."

He promises with a carelessness that concerns her. This is no mere agreement he can revoke, without consequences, when it pleases him. She's surrendering her heart to him on a silver platter; begging him not to crush it.

"Don't toy with me," she counters, stressing her incredulity. Canting her head toward the window, she watches snow begin to fall. "I don't have the means to go on wondering if you picture another's face every time I let you inside me."

He cradles her cheek against his palm, thumb wiping away a stray tear. "I would never heap such cruelty upon you."

"Upon a depreciating asset," she murmurs. A brittle smile plays on her lips as she leans into his caress. "Socially speaking, I'm not certain you can afford to take a wife into your affections. I would rather lose you now than watch you love me less and less with each inevitable disappointment I lay at your feet."

He studies her with the conceit of a man who has never been spurned by a conquest. "My wife," he underscores, catching her lack of specificity. "It would be a poor showing if I lacked the competence to keep you in style. Admittedly, I've been chronically truant; failing to learn the measure of you. My only disappointment lies with not having you sooner. Trust me to address this deficit."

Blinking away the threat of more tears, she dares to believe he might be sincere. "Is that a command?"

"A covenant," he declares with unwavering conviction.

"Very well then," she concedes, trying to ignore the twinge of uncertainty plaguing her. She chooses to double down. Taking advantage of the momentary pause, she lifts one of her legs to wrap around his waist; ankle pressing into the small of his back. "Forsake all others or renounce me. Let my greed rule us both."

"I'll relish every second I get to remind you that you're mine." 

With a smirk, he resumes ravishing her. His head perches upon her shoulder, letting him trail open-mouthed kisses up the curve of her neck. Settling deep into her body with renewed fervor, he moves in slow and deliberate shifts that ignite her desire into a fever. 

This is the most time she's ever spent in the throes of passion. Before now, she had only inexperienced lovers seeking to steal a moment or two. Even on MO-II, her trysts with Treize were brief, hurried along by the demands of the battlefield ripping him away. 

Stalling served him well in today's negotiations. Without hesitation, he seized the opportunity to interrogate her. If it were not for this diversion, she would have brooked no argument and fled. She managed to stumble into a field where he has every advantage. 

Clutching at him, she bucks up, trying to take him deeper. All she's ever longed for is to be close to him; to be someone deserving of his attention. Now that she's secured a more exacting promise from him, she's not quite sure what to do. 

Complacency is not an option. If Treize were to break his covenant, she's certain it would be her fault somehow. It's her duty to remain worthy of his affection; to stay beautiful and competent and…available.

She can't let him see the ugliness that haunts her dreams. In the privacy of her chambers, she tested sedatives in various doses to chase the nightmares away.

One tablet does nothing. Two tablets aren't enough. And three…

Well, she overslept for a reason. 

Two and a half, maybe. Later.

He drifts over her in steady currents, never stopping yet refusing to pick up the pace. And, to some extent, she understands. Above all else, she wants to keep existing in this moment.

But she also aches to come. 

With each succeeding thrust, his cock throbs within her. Yearning to take him over the edge, she tightens and tenses around him. She can see the furrows in his forehead; his struggle to delay the inevitable. 

Right now, she possesses him completely. Not knowing if she'll ever have him like this again, she revels in each satisfying impact. Gravity only serves to escalate the force bringing them together; lending him an intensity that augments each descent. She doesn't have to cling to him as tightly as she did in space. 

She holds him close all the same. 

"I'll stay," she gasps softly, voice cracking as she trembles beneath him. 

You can let go.

He seems to take her words as permission to pick up speed. The cotton spread beneath her ripples with each back and forth motion; their shared friction grinding her into the antique wooden surface. The table supporting them creaks louder, noise mingling with his labored grunts and her beseeching cries.

Harder.

Faster.

More.

Climax wrenches every remaining ounce of strength from her, heat coursing through her veins. Her scream echoes throughout the cavernous dining hall as he collapses, releasing inside her.

In the aftermath, she basks in the warmth of him in her arms, pressing a kiss to his temple. 

"Your staff is going to hate me for this mess," she murmurs, sweeping her hand down his back.

"Our staff," he corrects, muffled against her shoulder.

"Our staff is going to hate me for this mess," she reiterates, taking mental inventory of everything they've broken, stained, or otherwise cast into disarray. She's not certain if the cherry stain can be washed out of the crumpled tablecloth. The grapes from her breakfast have likely rolled to the far corners of the room. Sharp shiny things deck the marble floors; remnants of fine porcelain and crystal. 

"I absolve you of the responsibility. They'll have me to blame." Though Treize tries to allay her concerns, Une can't help but be apprehensive. After all, there was a time when she assisted with tidying whichever office he occupied. Leaving a mess for others to clean up feels inappropriate. 

Not as inappropriate as fucking on the dining table but still—

"You could stand to be less forgiving of me."

"There's no transgression to address," he insists, lifting his head to plunder her mouth slow. Her arguments die in her throat as she relaxes under him.

Upon breaking the kiss, she catches her breath. "I must look a mess." 

"Recently distinguished." His finger lightly traces the new bruise now eclipsing her bullet scar.

"That should suffice for recognition," she smirks, contemplating the series of turtlenecks she'll have to wear for her upcoming press briefings.

"Anticipate more," he portends. "Once doesn't meet the definition of habitual."

She shakes her head; both in amusement and disbelief. "I remain ever leal despite being on the cusp of moral bankruptcy."

"An inclination we share."

His cum drips out of her as he withdraws, oozing down her thighs.

We need to burn this tablecloth.

"That remains to be seen," she sighs, rising on her elbows to sit up. 

He's already back on his feet; buttoning his trousers, shrugging back into his shirt. Unlike her, he can restore himself to some level of presentability. 

With her underwear torn, she wraps her robe around her waist for cover, using the sleeves to tie it on. Unfortunately, that leaves her neckline exposed, putting her new hickey on full display. She sweeps her hair forward, covering her skin past the collarbones to conceal the mark. Not much she can do about the prominent wet spots on the front of her nightgown, but that's not as likely to draw attention as…everything else. 

She takes care lowering herself to the floor, putting her silk slippers back on. Shards of his broken cup and saucer, doused in tea, lie scattered at her feet in a glistening mess. The stickiness between her legs persists as she takes cautious steps to leave.

"Should I expect you tonight?"

The hopeful tone in her husband's voice almost makes Une's head turn. He remains ever the romantic despite all they've endured.

Looking back would be a mistake. Just one glimpse could break her resolve. It would be cruel to invite her nightmares into his bed.

Taking her silence as condemnation, he assumes the fault lies with him. "I still have much to prove if you think I could ever hurt you." 

She wants nothing more than to run back into his arms. Instead, she offers him a reassurance.

"You've never intended to hurt me, sir."

Pressing down on the ornate door handle to depart for her chambers, she leaves the implication unspoken.

At least, not yet.

Chapter Text

Every time he made progress, she pulled back.

Treize was not accustomed to despondence after a tumble. He stood in silence, staring at the door his wife had shut behind her. The dining hall windows served as a glum backdrop for the sorry scene. Snowfall frosted the glass panes to opacity. Shadowy grey permeated the room; as if she had drained all the color away when she left.

He had known what Lady Une was when he fell for her; a woman who liked to break things. Destruction incarnate. A controlled catastrophe made flesh. As the war had raged around them, his personal goddess had helped him weave downfalls into history with a loom of push pins, string, and a dogeared map.

And he had thanked her by sending her away, acting like she had failed him when all she did had been to comply with his demands.

Now, every time she honored her commitments, she looked at him with dismay. Anticipatory. In constant retreat. Always wondering if a misstep meant exile.

Even with the advantage of her inadvertently broadcasting her thoughts into his head whenever she was in distress, he could not always parse the inner workings of her mind. Of late, she had been a tempest he couldn't sail through. The noise of her insecurity often roared, deafening him into severing any attempt at a psychic connection. Now, it was only when he was closest to her that he caught snatches of her inner voice speaking; a signal fading in and out of a badly-tuned radio.

Resentment festered if left unbidden. He could not continue to let this rift grow.

With a heavy sigh, he steeled himself to go about the rest of his day. He stepped out of the dining hall, and was immediately met with the panicked shuffling of feet and the squeal of wheeled mop buckets across the floor.

Four of them. Did there have to be four of them?

It was clear he had interrupted some rather intense chatter. The maids scrambled to look busy, scattering away from each other. He knew each of them by name—from their various postings within OZ—before they had decided to come serve at his estate.

The gangling blonde, who began furiously wiping at a window that kept fogging itself back up from the heat of her own breath, went by Octavia. Her sister, Augusta, was staring at the floor, mopping in sloppy circles while standing still. They were accompanied by Quinta, who was wringing a rag into her bucket with far more concentration than necessary; and Em, who was scattering feathers from her duster dragging over the sides of a lopsided landscape painting.

He cleared his throat, prompting them to pretend they had just noticed him. They lined themselves up and curtsied as one. Apparently, they hadn't agreed on a singular greeting. They spoke over each other, stammering out good day and good afternoon and lovely weather we're having and…congratulations.

Em had the other three cocking their heads toward her, glaring daggers.

"On your most recent trip," she amended, arms fluttering at her sides like the wings on a wounded duck. The duster she clutched shed more feathers with each of her nervous flaps. A quill-shaped brass barrette in her barley hair only made her seem more bird-like.

"Are you well, sir?" interjected Augusta, trying to draw attention away from Em's panic. She was a darker shade of blonde than her sister and had a slightly more subdued disposition to match.

"Quite," he nodded, trying to sidestep them.

Octavia blocked his way with a sidestep of her own, daring to interrogate him. "We only ask out of concern," she said, speaking in an infuriatingly soft and flighty voice. "We were just—"

"Who is we?" interrupted Quinta, looking utterly appalled by Octavia's impertinence. "There is no 'we' in all this. You're on your own."

Undaunted, Octavia carried on, pretending she hadn't heard her colleague's protests. "As I was saying, we—"

Quinta glowered behind Octavia. Her sable buzz cut only served to make her look more intimidating.

"—were just wondering if you were in good health. Meaning no disrespect but you have quite the rash on your face, sir. If we served anything that may have triggered an allergy, we need to address it."

"We've had a biting chill the past few days," said Treize in the driest tone he could muster.

The friction burns down the side of his jaw must have been more obvious than he had assumed. Though he had enjoyed looking at the lace tops on Une's stockings, they had proved to be rather abrasive. It hadn't helped that the suspenders on her garter-belt had also scraped along his face.

Octavia carried on. "Be that as it may, we—"

"That's enough," interrupted Augusta, grabbing her sister by the scruff of her maid uniform. "Our apologies, Your Excellency. She had too much to drink last night."

"I'm not a lush!" yelped Octavia, trying to break free of her sister's hold. She only found herself further impeded; the other two on her team helping Augusta restrain her.

Treize took the opportunity to leave without comment, hearing them whisper and hiss amongst themselves as he departed.

"What were you thinking, sis?"

"Well, he's obviously not allergic to pussy."

"Sis!"

"Can't believe I lost a thousand credits on that bet."

The voices faded with each stride he took away from the squabble. Probably for the better that he didn't linger. It wasn't exactly a vote of confidence to have his subordinates betting against his success.

Intended, Une had said. She had told him that he had never intended to hurt her. There was a stark difference between harm lacking intent and no harm at all. The implication was hard to swallow, curdling into dread in the pit of his stomach.

He made his way to the foyer, taking a brief stop to stare up the flight of stairs. His wife had been ethereal descending the steps at Christmas; warm eyes the shade of well-steeped tea, chestnut hair braided and coiled up with emerald ribbon, cabochon ruby teardrops at her ears. She had worn an older style of dress; green velvet with puffy sleeves to contrast the tight silhouette that had hugged every curve of her body. At his urging, she had gone without gloves, putting some of the faded bruises up and down her arms on full display. Every other mark—including her bullet scar—she had covered with make-up.

Treize and Une hadn't needed to say anything about her injuries when the time came for dinner and mingling. Each of their guests—all OZ veterans—had been made aware of how harm came to their hostess. After all, most of them had helped Treize facilitate the necessary retaliation. The message had been clear: if such violence could be visited upon the wife of OZ's former scion, what might the future hold for the rest of the remaining order?

None of them were safe.

The display had fostered the unity they needed to forge ahead with eliminating bad actors seeking to take advantage of the power vacuum. Yet another sacrifice Une had made at the altar of his ambition.

And all this she had done thinking he hadn't the courtesy to write her a single letter while he had been gone to serve a brief prison sentence; a pretense manufactured so the new world government could save face.

Reaching into the depths of his trouser pockets, he pulled out a sheaf of envelopes touched by fire; half-burnt and smeared with ash. He held what little he had been able to salvage of his missing letters. Most of them had already been burned by the time he arrived to retrieve them.

The bundle rustled and crinkled in his hands. Absentmindedly, he thumbed through the singed edges, flaking off bits into black dust. Each letter had a compromised flap, lifted at the seam by the talon of a noblewoman who should have known better than to take what didn't belong to her.

The pungent smell of gunpowder mingled with the acidic tang of iron. Blood painted the paneled walls in amaryllis bursts.

It had been his intent to show Une at breakfast; tell her how he had never stopped thinking of her in the year he was away. Instead, he had been left to sit by himself, nervously twisting the ring she had given him as a late Christmas present.

Reimbursement.

That had been all she wrote on the gift tag. Simple. Concise. I love you, too.

It had unsettled him when his extremely punctual wife had failed to appear at the designated hour.

Acid and bile had risen in his stomach, burning his throat as he swallowed it back down. Not wanting to be sick when she finally came to the table, he had reluctantly eaten some toast with butter and honeycomb. The tea that accompanied it had been far too hot, burning the roof of his mouth. He recalled the meal tasting of nothing at all.

An anxious paralysis had overtaken him as he sat debating whether he should get up and barge into her chambers to check on her. She had been so stubborn about not sharing his bed. For what reason, he had not been able to fathom.

Time had gotten away from him as the servants paraded in to present their weekly reports. His domestic staff consisted primarily of his former soldiers. Though they performed housework, security was their main purpose. He had sat there and listened as best he could, stealing occasional glances at his pocket watch. As noon had drawn ever closer, he reached for the bell-pull, finally deciding to ask one of the maids to summon his wife.

Before Treize's return, Une hadn't selected any particular servant to attend her needs. When made to choose, she had elevated a lanky freckled girl with ginger curls to serve as her lady's maid.

Cassiopeia Twain.

Treize had reviewed the girl's file prior to the promotion taking effect. She had been a citizen of Gallia before the war made a mess of the European continent's borders.

A stateless child.

There had been an insider trading conviction on her record—overturned ahead of her first assignment on Une's lunar retinue. An interesting crime for one so green to commit.

Une did like working with young men and women who knew how to get away with things.

As expected, Cassiopeia had answered the call, rushing to retrieve her mistress. In the meantime, breakfast had been set out for Une. Her usual plate of modest fare had landed on the table with little ceremony. It had been the accompanying drink that struck him as strange; something resembling red wine in a crystal goblet.

Une had never been a drinker unless forced by the social situation. The footman setting the table had seen his concern and reassured him that it was only cherry cordial with honey.

The village elders presented it to milady as a gift, sir. She said she wanted to have some with breakfast.

Treize hadn't been able to keep from eyeing the goblet with suspicion. Before he had been able to ask more questions about it, the footman had gone.

Une had burst through the door not long after; severely underdressed. He had sighed in relief, glad to see her up and about. Once she was seated, gauging her mood at breakfast had proved difficult. She had shifted from apologetic to anxious to angry over the course of a few minutes.

Something was wrong.

And he had resolved not to let her walk away without addressing whatever it might be.

In truth, he hadn't known what compelled him to command her. Maybe it had been the way she implied that he was unwilling to perform his husbandly duties. He had said the first thing that popped into his head, telling her to sit on the table.

It had been a shock when she actually complied.

Though he had started out cautious, his desire soon overtook him. He had wanted her for over a year and kissing her on that table had opened the floodgates. There was no denying he had overindulged between his wife's thighs; the friction burns on his face served as testament to that. It had been nothing short of rapturous when she finally let him make love to her properly.

Well, as proper as fucking on a dining table could be.

It would be a lie to say he hadn't seized the opportunity to question her. Pinned beneath him, she had been given no choice but to answer.

Remembering the sadness in her eyes ripped him to pieces.

She had convinced herself that she was expendable; that he was eager to replace her. It was a notion he had tried to disabuse her of—since the inception of their marriage—to no avail. There had been no pain equal to having her assume he would be callous enough to seduce her while his heart lay elsewhere; that he could treat her like a mere body to be used and discarded.

His heart was hers. He had failed as her husband if he couldn't convince her of that fundamental fact.

The letters were tucked back into his pocket as he ascended the steps; eager to reach the comfort of his study. There was something sympathetic in the creak of the door upon his arrival; a wooden wail to accompany his worries. He claimed a plush seat by the crackling fire, letting his body go slack as he rested his head against the upholstered back of the chair; lifting his gaze to the ceiling.

Though Une's departure had doused his afterglow, her warmth still coursed through his veins. Somehow, he was both sated and starved.

Maybe the rest of the nobility had a point. Perhaps it truly was gauche to lust after his own wife. He had never felt more inelegant than he did now.

Worst of all, he welcomed it.

The stiffness in his neck woke him.

Sleep had claimed Treize at some point, exacting its toll for his morning exertions. Gingerly, he straightened in his seat, reaching back to rub circles into the aching muscle. Served him right for choosing idleness in the guise of contemplation. Dreamless slumber had offered no answers.

He tugged the chain on his pocket watch, wondering how much time he had lost. The hands ticked a quarter past seven.

A whole afternoon gone.

How was he meant to navigate supper? He was certain that gaggle of maids had leapt at the chance to gossip over the mess. As it had been within OZ, intel was currency no matter how trite. In this case, it had apparently informed some sort of betting pool. He didn't begrudge his staff for clinging to their old habits. When push came to shove, staying sharp was key to their efficacy.

It could be argued that he had invited scrutiny. He had better legal standing if he had his staff to support his claim. Une had to know that was what she had goaded him into. Internecine warfare, indeed.

He wasn't quite ready to take another meal in the dining hall. Not when breakfast had been so—

—decadent.

Calling for a tray would be the best way to sup tonight. Still, he couldn't bring himself to reach for the bell-pull. The ringing would echo down in the kitchens; a cue for his staff to gather and whisper amongst themselves. He could already picture them arguing over who would bring the tray up; eager to return with gossip for them to speculate over.

A guaranteed hit to productivity.

Going down to the kitchens himself would be the better move. He was overdue to check on operations after Une's latest audit anyway.

The estate's hydroponic glass gardens had yielded a surplus this year; sending the head chef and his sous into a panic over bushels of winter tomatoes, berries, and various greens. Their grain stores almost overflowed because Treize kept to tradition and let his tenant farmers pay rent in wheat. Foxes had been getting into their chicken coops, substantially shrinking the flock. The dairy was at a loss since he neglected to approve dry cows for slaughter. None of these shortfalls risked bankrupting him yet Une had gone on a tear addressing them all the same.

He was curious about her allocations. It gave him the perfect segue if he needed to steer conversation away from this morning's events. With dinner plans made, he left his study to descend into the kitchens.

A loud clang greeted him as soon as he pushed open the double swing doors. The head chef and his sous had been engaged in a rather spirited argument before Treize walked in. The former—tall and balding—gestured with a whisk. Meanwhile, the latter—of average build with his dark bob confined to a hairnet—furiously clicked his tongs. Both dropped their implements to salute.

Old habits definitely persisted.

"Harken. Colt."

Treize acknowledged them by name before dismissing their formalities with a wave of the hand, prompting them to turn away and attend to whatever was bubbling on the wood-burning stove behind them.

The kitchens, like most of the manor, featured a whole slew of anachronisms. Stoves and ovens—industrial and wood-fired—worked in tandem; brushed steel contrasting brick. A heavy metal sliding door with a numpad concealed the walk-in freezer. Beside it, a hideous pre-colony icebox—covered in flaking avocado green paint—loomed large; non-functional and utilized as a makeshift storage space. Metal work tables and pale marble counters gleamed with sterile brightness. Reclaimed redwood shelving bent and groaned from the weight of the various jars and canisters they bore. Some sinks were still ornamented by antiquated crystal knob fixtures while others had practical spigots that often accommodated short spray hoses. Off to the corner, a heavy wooden door hid the stairs down to a network of underground rooms; the cold pantry, cheese grotto, dry-aging chambers, and wine cellar all lay right beneath the terracotta kitchen tile.

A soft laugh carried from the counter on the other side of the room.

Treize's head turned and Une's maid immediately fell silent, suddenly engrossed in the folds and creases of the trout en papillote she was transferring onto a serving tray. He took a few tentative steps toward her, watching as she placed a cloche over—what he assumed to be—his wife's supper.

"Cassiopeia, did your mistress call for a tray?" he asked.

The girl nodded, refusing to look him in the face.

"How is she?"

Cassiopeia's head swiveled slow, staring at him with thinly-veiled contempt. "Permission to speak freely?"

"You have it," he affirmed.

The girl took a deep breath, turning away from the tray to curtsy before standing at attention. "Meaning much disrespect, your wife is tired, sir."

Another clang rang out in the background as the sous, Colt, dropped his ladle. He loudly feigned a cough as he picked it back up. Cassiopeia didn't flinch, utterly unapologetic.

"I recall you being far more timid around your mistress."

"She inspires fear like no other," asserted Cassiopeia. "I'm sure you're familiar. She has her reputation and you have…well, you have yours." Her disdain was palpable. Scoundrel was implied.

"And might I ask what I've done to earn your disrespect?"

Smirking, she called out to one of the men behind Treize. "Shall I tell him, chef?"

"Don't drag me into this, Cassie," Harken yelled back. "This is all on you."

"Aye, chef," she huffed, turning her attention back to Treize. "Did you ever stop to wonder why there were no duel challenges on the docket upon your return, sir?"

A chill ran down his spine at her inquiry. With all the chaos surrounding his homecoming, he hadn't entertained the thought of any demands for satisfaction from his peers.

Cassie carried on. "Chef Harken over there drew the short straw when we were deciding who would step up to be your wife's second. Better him than me. I'm terrible at diplomacy."

"Obviously!" shouted Harken. Treize could sense the man's glare from across the room.

"Good thing we didn't end up needing you, Ken!" she shot back, abandoning her military bearing to bury her hands in her apron pockets. Treize suspected she was making an obscene gesture beneath the fabric.

"Anyway," resumed Cassie, addressing her lord once again, "your wife wrote back to all your challengers saying she would duel them herself. Caused quite the stir. Killing a titled lady is dishonorable and losing to one even worse. The challenges were quietly dropped and milady didn't pursue the matter."

She cleared her throat, seemingly for dramatic effect.

"I do wish that had been the end of it. Those so-called gentlemen didn't take that insult well. Spoiled first sons, the lot of them. Their mothers and sisters took up their grievances; dragging along a slew of tarts seeking a place in your bed. I'm sure you know the rest."

Treize took a moment to let the story sink in, pondering the chain of events that had led to his wife almost being beaten to death.

I would have appreciated your counsel on social mores while you were away but you likely had good reason not to write.

Une had told him as much at Christmas.

If his words had reached her…

If they had been able to exchange letters…

If he had known, he would have counseled her and told her to delay until he could address the challenges himself. He would have told her not to meddle. He would have—

She would have burned his letters and plodded on anyway.

"Does Lady Une know those noblewomen called on her because—"

Cassie shook her head. "She hasn't put the pieces together. I don't think she wants to." With a shrug, she turned to pick up her serving tray. "Milady's supper is getting cold. I should go."

Treize let Cassie push past him, finding himself rooted to the floor. "Is there anything else I should know?"

The girl paused when she heard his question, glancing at him over her shoulder. Her green eyes were full of pity. "You don't marry a tactician then expect her to ignore established patterns."

With that last jab landed, Cassie flew out the doors.

Before Treize left the kitchens, Harken had pushed a bottle of birch beer and a hand pie on him. In a daze, he had forgotten to ask about Une's expense reports.

He probably wouldn't have been able to read them anyway. Not with so much weighing on his mind.

Back in his study, he cast his bundle of scorched letters into the flames, watching them curl into ash. It had been stupid to think Une would want to read secondhand sentiments sullied by another woman's hands. An insult to all the effort she put into being an ideal wife to an inadequate husband.

Collapsing into his seat, he tore into his supper in silence. A thickened stew oozed from the puff pastry. He couldn't be bothered to try and figure out what it was. The hand pie was something savory he could swallow and that was all that mattered. Though the birch beer was sickly sweet, he was grateful for the fizz to wash away the oily film left by the sauce on his tongue. The base was a broken bechamel. Each bite was an unpleasant surprise; alternating between absolute mush and firm pieces of—what he guessed to be—undercooked root vegetable.

Not Harken's best work, but it wasn't without its merits. The pastry was perfectly balanced; flaky yet sturdy enough to keep any filling from leaking. From what Treize knew of his kitchen crew, Harken was a weak baker. Certainly not skilled enough to laminate pastry on this level.

Perhaps Colt had picked up the gauntlet. A lack of experience would explain the inconsistency.

But why had Harken served his colleague's subpar work when it was barely fit for consumption?

They were probably trying to drag Treize into their galley politics. Considering all the chaos around him, mediating in something so immaterial might actually be a welcome reprieve. After all, Une had said she wanted him to be more involved with managing the staff in residence.

This could be a good place to start.

Treize found himself grateful for the awful supper. It took his mind off the challenges ahead, at least for a little while. Though unpleasant, it was enough for sustenance.

Writing the day off, he found the strength to put out the fire and drag himself back to his chambers. After a quick shower, he resigned himself to another night alone in his bed.

Morning came far too soon. Treize dressed casually upon getting up; loose slacks and a sweater. After that most recent business trip, he was on sabbatical for the rest of the week. He could only hope that respite would offer him the perspective he needed to hold his marriage together.

Nobody had ever told him that civilian life would be a constant cycle of tedious choices; food and proper attire being the worst among them. Still hesitant to take another meal in the dining hall, he considered skipping breakfast altogether. The tassel on the bell-pull by his bed beckoned before he decided against tugging at it. After what Harken had pushed on him last night, he would be best served by fixing his own tray if he did decide to eat.

Mischief lit up Harken's grey eyes once Treize crossed into the kitchens. The chef sauntered over, hands clasped behind his back. "How was supper, sir?"

"The crust was perfect," replied Treize, choosing to be polite.

"And the filling?"

An awkward silence hung between them before Treize decided he owed the man honesty. "Almost inedible."

To his surprise, Harken's face broke into a grin. "Wonderful! I'm glad we agree."

One of Treize's prominent brows lifted as he wondered if his chef meant to make his lord look a fool. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Every week, I watch your wife roll out perfectly laminated dough before promptly crimping that sludge into it," explained Harken, shuddering at the memory. "She freezes those accursed pockets to eat when she works late. Your Excellency, I implore you to make her stop. I've tried to take over her meal prep yet she persists."

"So you're saying all of that was her handiwork?"

Harken nods. "She always starts out so well with her scales and her ruled pastry board. All her tools neatly spread out. Temperature calculated down to the decimal. Time adherence down to the second. Everything weighed and measured out to her exact specifications. I think she enjoys the math more than the baking."

That does sound like her.

"It's the cooking that throws her off," elaborated Harken. "Doing things 'to taste' with measurements in dashes and pinches. Produce indicated by unit instead of volume. Going off recipes that lie about the time it takes to caramelize an onion. She can't wrap her head around creation by intuition."

Unpredictability has a way of getting under her skin.

"Please sir, I implore you to ask her if she could rely on us. I wouldn't even mind a compromise. She can make her dough and leave the rest to me."

"That might be a tall order," sighed Treize, pinching the bridge of his nose. Une had a propensity for doing things herself whenever she was given the opportunity. Then again, the lady of a great house should know how to delegate and free up her time for more pressing matters. If he could phrase it properly, she might relent. "I'm not making any promises."

Harken bowed. "You honor us by trying."

A question suddenly bubbled up in the back of Treize's mind. "Do you recall the day my lady was felled, chef?"

Lifting his head, Harken's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not a day easily forgotten, sir."

"Did she bake for that occasion?"

The man ran his fingers through what little remained of his jet-black hair. "Indeed she did. Said she had something to prove and ushered everyone out of the kitchens. That batch of confections turned out pretty well, actually."

"Thank you, chef," he muttered, swallowing his anger. "I'll be on my way."

It seemed his wife had led quite the life while he had been gone. Baking for undeserving strangers. Provoking duels. Triggering economic collapses halfway across the planet.

All while keeping the remainder of OZ's assets away from the unworthy.

And in return, she wanted…

She wanted me to love her back.

He did. Truly, he did.

A shame he was terrible at showing it.

He stepped into the hallway that led to Une's chambers on the far side of the manor. Had she risen yet? Come to think of it, she hadn't visited the master suite to get dressed this morning. He hadn't seen anyone preparing a breakfast tray for her in the kitchens either.

It had been strange enough for her to be late once. Twice in a row? More than a little worrisome.

He heard voices coming from the end of the hall, getting louder as he neared his next turn. Coming to a stop, he lingered around the corner, listening to the maids chattering outside his wife's room.

"Try knocking again."

"She isn't answering."

"Well, she told us to come tidy up by 0700 hours. Here we are."

"Do you think she's even in there?"

"What do you mean?"

"She could be keeping the master company."

"Don't be silly, Auggie. I know the master has hope but she's never going to fully move in with him."

"That's cruel, Quinta."

"It's true. She wouldn't want him to hear— Well, you know."

"It's been quiet of late. Maybe she's put it to rest."

"Too quiet now," observed Quinta, pounding on the door again. "Milady, are you all right?"

"She slept in yesterday, too. Maybe she forgot."

"You and I both know she wouldn't forget something she underlined thrice on the schedule."

"Well, what are we meant to do? Call for the master?"

"No, she'd have both our heads if His Excellency ever found out—"

Treize took being the topic of conversation as his cue, stepping out of the shadows. "Found out what?"

Augusta went pale, barely standing on wobbly knees. Behind her, Quinta managed to maintain her posture though her hands trembled at her sides.

"N-nothing, sir," stammered Augusta as she elbowed her colleague. "Quinta was making a jape. A terrible jape in poor taste."

"Aye, sir," affirmed Quinta, suddenly enthralled by the mud spots on her clogs. "Passing the time with nonsense. Pay it no mind."

Treize pushed past both of them to knock on the door himself. The same silence greeted him. "If there's something you two aren't telling me, I'll have to—"

"Milady screams and sobs in her sleep," blurted Augusta, immediately cracking.

"Not as often these days," added Quinta, trying to downplay the situation.

Another knock. More silence. Rattling the knob only confirmed that it was locked. Treize summoned his most deadpan tone, addressing the two maids behind him. "Split up and find Tacitus. Have him bring me the key to my wife's chambers. Now."

Quinta and Augusta sprinted in opposite directions, likely grateful for the excuse to flee. The sound of their steps was soon swallowed up by distance, leaving Treize to contemplate the eerie stillness beyond his wife's door.

Did his entire staff know his wife's reason for refusing to share his bed? Had they laughed as they watched him struggle to win her over?

Une had hidden so much of herself from him. Did she think her flaws and idiosyncrasies would compel him to abandon her?

Of course, she did.

He'd done it before.

Any tactician of her caliber would have been foolish to ignore the pattern.

She had pleaded with him to visit her on the moon and he had responded by asking her to return to him. When she survived being shot, he had tasked his soldiers with escorting her comatose body instead of taking the time to meet her at port. Hovering between life and death, she had fought to fly to his side.

In every instance, he had relied on her to come to him. Not once did he consider that she might have wanted the reassurance of being seen as a worthy pursuit.

He pressed his forehead against the wood, wondering if he should kick the door off its hinges. A tap on his shoulder stopped him before he could step back to try. Tacitus pressed the key into his palm, quickly retreating as Treize introduced the brass to the lock.

A click and a creak heralded his intrusion. Disregarding any sense of propriety, he rushed to Une's bedside.

Chapter Text

Darkness engulfed Treize as he crossed the threshold into his wife's chambers. A dying fire crackled in the hearth, begging him to feed and stoke it. The curtains had been drawn shut, leaving a mere suggestion of light to peer through tiny rifts between the drapes. Managing not to stumble, he made it to Une's bedside and knelt.

Awash in shadow, the shape of Une's body protruded from beneath a duvet and several layers of blankets. This bedchamber had always been form over function. The last lady to claim it had refused the installation of one of those hideous cast iron accordions—words dripping venom as she inked her rejection of a radiator into the manor's renovation records. Une had considered remediating the situation but Treize had halted her; insisting that there was no point since she wouldn't be staying in the room much longer.

In hindsight, it had been the wrong move to assume inhospitable conditions would drive his wife into his arms. Une had seemed to take it as a challenge, telling him she could make do with the fireplace until spring. She re-allocated the funds that would have heated her chambers, parlaying them into the staff's bonuses.

Didn't expect them to be so mercenary; letting her buy their silence.

He had to wonder how long she had intended to keep him oblivious to her night terrors. Perhaps indefinitely if Augusta hadn't cracked like an egg at the slightest pressure.

Gently, Treize peeled back some of the layers covering Une, pulling them down past her shoulders. She had fallen asleep on her side, hair tousled on her pillow. Despite him reacquainting her with the chill that bathed the room, she didn't shiver in her sleep.

Reaching out, he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. The warmth of her breath wafted against his knuckle once his touch ghosted over the corner of her mouth. No indication that she would be unresponsive; yet she had heard none of the noise at her door.

Maybe light would rouse her.

He drew the curtains back from the windows, flooding her bed with sun.

The brightness did nothing to make her stir.

On her nightstand, an amber bottle gleamed, beckoning him. It rattled as he picked it up; only half full. The remnants of a label clung to the glass, white specks flecked on sticky residue. Beside it lay an open notebook with a fountain pen—ruby red with gold accents—resting in the valley between pages. Petrol dark ink formed the numbers on the paper—plain black at first glance; oil slick iridescent with hints of green and violet upon closer inspection.

Age 21; 01/11/197

01: 300mg | 2100 | 2309 | 01/12/197

02: 600mg | 2100 | 0357 | 01/13/197

03: 900mg | 2100 | 1053 | 01/14/197

04: 750mg | 2100 | ____ | __/__/___

Some rudimentary form of a dosing schedule?

There was nothing resembling the influence of a doctor on the log. It was severely lacking in detail.

Setting the bottle aside, Treize proceeded to riffle through the rest of her writings. He found nothing regarding her vitals. No further details on the pills either. Considering the scraped label, he suspected Une had obtained them by illicit means.

All the prior pages contained her rough calculations pertaining to various aspects of the manor; grain, livestock, wages. It went on and on regarding matters he hadn't given a second thought. She had put more effort into determining the cost of glass panels needed to mend the roof on a decommissioned greenhouse over determining her body's compatibility with whatever she had been ingesting.

"My lady, what have you done?" he murmured, turning back to her most recent entry.

She had made a point to commence this experiment while he was overseas.

The week of her birthday.

Considering he had been—and still was—in charge of her OZ personnel files, he had no excuse for letting the date slip his mind.

Come to think of it, hadn't she arranged that trip for him?

She had stacked scheme atop scheme; buying their staff's silence, sending him away, dabbling in questionable drugs in his absence.

And that was without considering her past meddling in his duels; or the way she moved tokens and drew circles on maps to forecast how they might alter the fate of this new world.

She had banked on knowing the proper dose by the time he came home. Failing that, she thought she had made herself look idle and incompetent.

As if I could ever accuse her of sloth.

Treize could only guess at the nature of the relief Une sought. If persistent nightmares had been what plagued her, she must have been chasing dreamless sleep.

Some type of sedative, he surmised.

There was something unsettling about her slumber. Shutting his eyes, he tried to reach out to her through the cosmic link that bound them.

She isn't here.

Her consciousness had wandered somewhere sight and sound couldn't reach.

But hadn't she been fine the day before?

2100 | 1053 | 01/14/197

It looked like Une consistently took the dubious sedative at 2100 hours and then…10:53 must have been when yesterday's dose wore off. Right around when Cassiopeia got a hold of her for breakfast.

The human body could be unpredictable when introduced to new substances; let alone a drug that appeared to be black market contraband. Perhaps some huckster had promised her a quick fix. She had been swallowing these tablets without a care, ignoring all the other factors at play; the type of nanotech in her blood, the prior damage to her heart, the psychic energy that crackled around her.

This was his fault, wasn't it? The constant pressure he put on her to come to him while she struggled to keep her demons at bay.

He could have seen the signs if he had wanted to.

If he had spent more evenings walking by her chambers.

If he had made her comfortable enough to be herself.

If he had had the wherewithal to come to her instead of constantly expecting her to—

This was their pattern.

After all this time, they still had yet to break it.

Claiming selfishness, she had asked to have him all to herself. Nothing more.

He owed her supplication. Constant vigil. The kind of devotion that insisted upon itself.

They had been stuck in an infernal waiting game where he anticipated her compliance while she stalled in order to become what she thought he needed.

He needed her.

Regardless of the parade of demons she had at her back.

In spite of the constant whispers that deemed her unworthy of him.

Even when she was breaking things.

No, especially when she was breaking things.

She wasn't easy to love; and he didn't need her to be. Such was the responsibility that came with being the only godforsaken creature she could be prevailed upon to want.

Why did these epiphanies only come to him when he couldn't speak to her?

With shaky hands, he set her logbook back on her nightstand, keeping it open to the page she had left it on.

She remained unmoved; an empty shell of herself.

Who would it serve if he lay next to her and took her in his arms? Would he be twisting her wish for his own gratification? Projecting his desires upon her yet again?

You've never intended to hurt me, sir.

What did he intend?

To hold her.

To drag her consciousness back from the void.

To tell her that she was already everything he could possibly hope for.

He was a penitent seeking audience; and she was free to break his heart in any way she pleased.

Walking to the other side of the bed, Treize bent to take off his shoes. Slowly, he eased himself beneath the covers. He delayed closing the remaining distance between himself and Une, admiring how the sun lent a bronze sheen to the long chestnut hair that spilled down her back. She was clad in white silk, shoulders bare in a nightgown better suited for summer.

He couldn't bring himself to touch her.

Instead, he contented himself with watching her, making certain the rise and fall of her breaths persisted.

He was certain she would wake.

She had to.

She had promised to stay.

He still remembered the way the moon's reflection had glistened on the lake that first time he had asked her to come back to him.

Like a piece of night had been torn from the heavens.

Like he could wade into that brilliant circle on the water and suddenly have her at his side.

She did eventually honor his plea; fashionably late and with dramatic flair. For him, she had defied death.

Now, he begged her to defy the allure of oblivion for her own sake.

Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander, seeking to take hold of anything that lay hidden in the dark. Surely, he hadn't been severed from her. He refused to believe a psychic tether could be cut by something that came in a glass bottle.

Tendrils of light snaked across the black expanse behind his eyelids, hundreds of paths opening up to him. Without a second thought, he seized a glowing thread.

A sharp whistling needled into his head; stabbing pinpricks of pain trying to shatter his concentration. His heart thundered in his chest. Scalding heat burned his throat; as if the spout of a boiling kettle had been forced down his gullet. Still, his mind hung on to that shining filament like his life depended on it.

Reaching, grasping, clinging.

Another tug.

The thread wove itself into a familiar strip of fabric; pink silk ribbon dragging him into waking.

A loud gasp erupted from the body beside him.

Une startles awake to blinding light accompanied by a biting chill. Cold air floods her lungs as she catches her breath; puffs of white leaving her lips. Her eyes immediately dart to the fireplace, watching the flickering flames fade into embers.

The drapes are drawn, inviting an overabundance of sunlight into her chambers. She doesn't have to pull the chronograph from her bedside drawer. The brightness makes it clear she's overslept again.

Another failure. I'll have to weigh my other options and—

"It would grieve me to watch you endure another ordeal."

The sound of a familiar voice takes her unawares, making her jolt. A hand grabs her by the shoulder, keeping her from toppling off her bed. She ends up flat on her back, turning her head to see her husband lying beside her. Her mouth falls open in shock; scandalized at his unexpected presence in her room.

"I'm not fit for company," she blurts, sitting up to gather blankets around herself for both warmth and modesty. Utterly daft considering she still bears his mark on her chest from yesterday's…excursion.

"You treat me no better than an indigent come to seek charity," sighs Treize, looking up at her from his repose. "Must I send notice before you receive me in my own home?"

"I would implore you to," she answers, employing her sternest tone. "For decency's sake."

He clears his throat, looking pained. "I don't recall decency being of any relevance when last we met. Besides, you forfeit your claim to courtesy by keeping secrets from me."

Though unable to deny it, she balks at the accusation. What has he pieced together? He must have come to fetch her himself when she overslept. The logbook and pill bottle, at her nightstand, are more than enough to imply some questionable drug use.

"You fault me for courtesy in excess while offering me none."

"And thus we strike a balance," he declares.

In frustration, her fingers curl into her sheets. "I was doing you a kindness. My troubles are my own."

"Your troubles are as much mine as you are."

Une's eyes go wide at his assertion; astonished that he could want her enough to reinforce the leverage granted unto him by marriage. "A poor prize you've chosen for yourself."

Treize shifts to sit up next to her, headboard at his back. Reaching out, he caresses her cheek, turning her head toward him. "You speak as if you don't consume my every waking moment."

A lump forms in her throat as she struggles to choke back a sob. "I speak as the widow you intend to make of me."

"Is that what you dream?"

Of course, he's already figured out what ails her. With his skill for gathering intelligence, she would expect nothing less.

Nodding, she forces herself to meet his gaze, eyes brimming with tears. "You must think me a fool to love you so. A more dispassionate wife would suit you better."

"Foolishness is part and parcel of being wed," he reassures, leaning in close enough to cup her face in both his hands. "Success is determined by knowing which inanities to abide and which to cast out."

"I fear your death more than I've ever feared my own," she confesses, enduring the weight of his stare. "Every night, I watch a different version of myself lose you. Unable to move. Helpless while I watch myself crumple at the sight of you—"

He silences her with a kiss, fevered and fervent. His fingers tangle in her hair, cradling the back of her head, crushing her to him like he has something to prove. When they finally part for air, he takes her in his arms, letting her cry into the wool of his sweater. She sobs with grief that isn't entirely her own; the tears unshed by her other selves as they forced themselves to regain their bearing and take command.

"I can't speak for who I am in your dreams," he murmurs, soothing her by resting one hand at the nape of her neck while moving the other over her back in slow circles. "There was a point in time when I thought— I considered making that grand gesture of atonement to set the world right. No other future presented itself before me. I couldn't fathom a way forward but you— You say you watched your other selves lose me. Perhaps I let fate decide in every other iteration of history. Perhaps doom was always meant to befall us. Perhaps I thought breaking your heart was a small price to pay for guaranteeing you a lifetime of safety. There were a million different reasons to traverse that path but I—"

Treize falls silent, seeming to run out of words. Still in his embrace, Une can hear his heart pounding.

"I had made up my mind not to see you," he admits. "I knew you would get the better of me and I would lose my resolve."

"Yet you came to me anyway."

"I did something to deserve you and everything else fell into place."

A bitter laugh escapes her. "Perhaps this is fate punishing me for my defiance, showing me how things ought to be."

"This is how things ought to be," he insists. "Here and now. It's far from perfect; but it's still a life we built against all odds. I beg you not to squander it by choosing to face your demons by yourself."

"For someone who's chosen to suffer far more sorrow alone, you ask much from me," she mutters, muffled against his sweater.

"I never denied being a hypocrite."

Shaking her head, she breaks his embrace. "Try and be sensible."

She knows her current state undermines her argument a great deal; puffy red eyes and tears streaking down her cheeks. Sniffling, she wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. The wet blot she left on his sweater is clear as day, darkening the beige knit.

Leaning in, he helps her get her hair out of her face, sweeping away the loose strands clinging to her cheek. "Now, who's the hypocrite?"

Despite her agitation, he somehow manages to draw a slight smile from her. "I can't help it when you lead by example."

"Then I may corrupt you yet," he smirks.

"To the marrow," she sighs, conceding. "You're a terrible influence."

Taking on the tone of a mock-penitent, he clasps both her hands in his. "I'm afraid you'll have to shoulder the burden of a degenerate's affections for the rest of your days."

The sun shines bright beyond the windows, banishing most of the chill. She welcomes the warmth of his touch to relieve the lingering cold numbing her fingers. Their golden wedding bands catch the light, lending them an auspicious sparkle.

"I suppose waking up next to you every morning wouldn't be too much of an imposition."

Sardonic, he stifles a chuckle. "How magnanimous."

Treize called to have the table set after Une had agreed to a late breakfast with him. A fresh start after yesterday's chaos. She had handed him the amber pill bottle before retreating to her en suite; asking him to dispose of the tablets. A gesture of confidence. Once she began sharing his bed, she trusted him to help alleviate her night terrors.

He was determined not to disappoint her.

Returning to the dining hall was surreal. A fresh tablecloth had been laid out; pristine white cotton. No trace of broken crystal or porcelain. His staff had erased any hint of the debauchery from the day before, restoring the room's dignified air.

Seating himself at the head of the table, he fidgeted by running his fingers over one of the armrests. The upholstery was plush; embellished by gold thread embroidered into swirls on dark blue. His touch skimmed past the textile, tracing the carved oak that curled into the shape of a ram's horn at the end of the support.

Treize had been impulsive when he hooked his wife's legs over the armrests, using them to keep her spread before him as she lay on the table. That memory lingered in the back of his mind, seeking to impart an erotic underpinning to any future gathering he might host. Most parties were a social obligation to be endured. At the next one, he could only hope Une would grant him reprieve; let him whisk her away to ravish her in some dark corner. It would give him something to look forward to in the coming tedium.

Slow steps echoed against marble; announcing his wife as she walked through the door. Though he had claimed she forfeited courtesy, he stood to greet her all the same.

He never could hold her to account for much of anything.

Her billowing black skirt covered her legs, flowing past her ankles. She lifted it ever so slightly as she curtsied, keeping the hem from touching the floor.

It seemed she was overcompensating for being underdressed yesterday. A dark purple turtleneck kept her well-covered; sleeves extending to her wrists.

Modesty did little to diminish her allure.

The tight fit of her sweater suggested at the sensuous curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts underneath. A berry shade tinted her lips, inviting him for a taste. She had worked with whatever witchcraft she kept at her vanity; sharpening her stare, painting a faint flush on her cheeks, banishing any sign that she had been weeping in his arms but an hour ago.

Never had he ever been so grateful for loose slacks. She was so beautiful it physically pained him.

Something had shifted between them.

Her smile.

Her posture.

She presented herself in a way that was familiar yet altogether new to him. This was…

…the confidence she radiated through the television screen during her colony tour.

The certainty of a tactician who knew she had the upper hand.

Chapter Text

"I sent word down to Harken regarding the repast," declares Une, taking her seat.

She asks Treize for no validation, assuming he won't question her taking charge of such a trifling matter. It takes him a second to nod before he settles back into his chair.

Upon unfolding her cloth napkin with a flick of the wrist, she tries to bring him up to date on the state of the household. "I've been looking into streamlining the way we manage your estate. The agriculture is promising but we're sorely lacking in expertise. I sent my preliminary inquiries to the university one town over. Trying to figure out if we run the risk of a security breach by bringing in an outside institution." She flattens the linen out on her lap, amused at the absurdity of using white fabric to protect her black skirt from staining. "We may have to ask our staff to speak with the village elders, see if they can offer any insight on how things ran before the war. Many of them retired from serving here and—"

She lifts her gaze from her lap, cocking a brow at the dazed expression on her husband's face. "Treize, are you listening to me?"

The direct inquiry startles him into focus. He stares at her as if she's sprouted an extra head.

"What is it?" she asks. "Is there something on my face?"

"Not at all." His lips curve into a smile as he shakes his head. "After over a year, I'm just not sure what to make of you speaking my name without choking on it."

Une puts the back of her hand to her mouth; her ribbon wedding band brushing her lower lip. She's baffled by how casually she was able to speak to him. By now, she would usually be stumbling into an apology for her lack of civility.

"I suppose I did," she acknowledges, surprised at her own lack of panic.

The awkward silence is blessedly broken by two footmen arriving to serve the meal; laying down plates and pouring drink. Treize takes his tea as Une watches cherry tonic stream into her goblet.

Oh, right. I promised to drink all of it.

Considering the size of the jar that was gifted to her, she has about three more servings after this one.

Treize thanks the footmen as Une raises her glass up to the light, contemplating the dark red liquid. What did Cassie say about it? Some nonsense about it being a customary libation for bolstering desirability. Well, if yesterday was any indication…

She lacks the urge to play at being a fantasist. No need to overthink a coincidence. Treize wanted her long before the honeyed cordial passed her lips. She just couldn't bring herself to believe it until they both reached their respective limits and lost control.

And there was nothing desirable about the fit she threw before Treize brought her to heel.

If anything, her loss of inhibition may have stemmed from the sedatives she experimented with. Less interesting but far more plausible. She should stop seeking an ulterior motive in every gesture of good will extended to her.

Her berry lipstick stains the rim of her crystal goblet as she takes a sip of tonic. A butter yellow omelette wobbles on her plate; garnished only by the faintest glint of flaky sea salt melting into the smooth surface. A palm-sized medallion of griddle bread sits off to the side; bland and unassuming.

Were she breaking her fast under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn't have amended the chef's intended menu. After all, she was curious about how well the spinach and garlic scapes were doing in the hydroponic gardens. Both would have been perfect additions to an omelette.

Unfortunately, she has an image to curate. She can't risk green staining her teeth while dining with her husband.

Less of a dietary restriction and more of a social one.

By the same principle, she only eats seafood when she's alone. There's nothing remotely appealing about watching a lady choke on a stray fish bone or shrimp tail. She planned for last night's trout dinner a week ahead; relieved at not having to mind etiquette while supping in her chambers.

She even made arrangements for the aftermath, emphasizing the necessary clean-up by underlining the chore thrice on the staff's schedule for the following morning. No smell lingered when she went to bed but she didn't trust herself not to miss traces in the air. She relied on her maids to banish any hint of fish—real or imagined—with the chemical scent of pine.

A non-issue now that she intends to change rooms.

The omelette is easy enough to eat; expertly folded and not too runny on her fork. The bread soaks up the thinner curds of egg. No risk of anything dripping on her.

Peace is the privilege of being able to worry about frivolities.

Speaking of which...

"I hope I'm not talking out of turn," she murmurs, looking up from her plate. "But I've been meaning to ask…whatever became of those letters you meant for me?"

Treize sets his teacup down. He tips his head back against his chair to stare off into the false sky painted on the ceiling, heaving a sigh. "A woman of no consequence had them."

His refusal to say this person's name alludes to his level of scorn. Even when discussing enemy soldiers he felled, he imparted a certain solemnity by properly addressing them.

Curiosity gets the better of her, pushing her to pry. "Someone I would know?"

Treize takes a moment, seeming to ponder how much he should disclose. There's a twitch to the corner of his mouth. "You were spared the adversity of her acquaintance."

In any other circumstance, Une would let the subject drop. However, since her husband believes he's entitled to call upon her unannounced, she seeks to even the score. Answers are the least he can offer.

"What became of this stranger?"

Treize knows better than to coddle her. They've dealt with too much to be delicate.

"She was made to resemble a sieve," he replies, stern-faced.

Somehow both euphemistic and brutal. She favors this turn of phrase over poetry.

Une acquiesces, taking a brief swig from her goblet. She sees little appeal in letting small talk devolve into an interrogation. "You're welcome to share at your leisure. If you'd rather not have me read—"

"I wouldn't have you suffer the insult of reading letters sullied by the hands of an interloper," he grits out, straightening his posture. There's a visible tension in his jaw; as if he's holding something back. His white-knuckled grip on his silverware doesn't escape her.

"You took care of it personally," she realizes, eyes going wide.

"As befits a personal violation," he affirms. "There was no other recourse."

Treize's revelation only serves to further pique Une's interest. "Might I ask what became of your quarry?"

He loosens his hold on his knife and fork, setting them to rest off to the side of his plate. Briefly, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath; as if steeling himself for something unpleasant.

"That woman had already fed most of my letters to the fire by the time I came to retrieve them. She begged and pleaded for her life; saying she hadn't let anyone else read what I'd written. Weeping and caterwauling. I could have put her down with one shot but she…"

He trails off. Une senses his dread at having to recount this sorry state of affairs. "You don't have to—"

"She said I would have been better off if you had died in the war."

Oh.

"I only regret wasting so much ammunition," he concedes."There was no finesse to it; no art."

She reaches out to hold his hand. "Not much you could do with a canvas of such poor quality. Did all the letters burn?"

"Yes."

There's something off about his answer; some nuance she's missing. His palm is clammy in her loose grip. She decides not to push him any further. No need to stress him over ashes.

Squeezing his hand, she offers reassurance. "You'll just have to write me new ones."

Their eyes meet, and she beams. Such talk would ruin the appetites of most civilians. They're still soldiers at heart, accustomed to discussing the world's ugliness even in times of calm.

She steers the conversation toward more trivial matters; anticipating the first bloom in their rose garden after the spring thaw, restoring the old orangery, polishing off the last of the apples preserved in autumn. Though she can tell he's only half-listening—there's little subtlety in the way his stare wanders from her mouth to the shape of her curves beneath her sweater—she plods on, carrying them through the rest of the meal.

It isn't long before the footmen return to clear the table, swapping out empty plates for dessert. Une is bemused as she scrutinizes the crepe in front of her; a folded half-moon filled with raspberries nestled in pastry cream.

That showboating oaf.

She told Harken that a single course would suffice for a casual breakfast. This is going to throw off her schedule. To add insult to injury, he decided to make a dessert Une has never managed to replicate.

Every pan is different. You need to discern which part of the surface heats up first. There is no specific amount of butter to keep your batter from sticking. You just know.

That stack of burnt and tattered crepes still irks Une every time she thinks about it. Harken dared to say that some people just lack the intuition for such delicate work.

Condescending prat.

"Before you throttle Harken, you should know he was only following my orders," says Treize, piercing a berry on his fork.

"Pardon?"

"This is one of your favorites, isn't it? I thought it would be a pleasant way to cap things off."

Une grits her teeth, seething. She manages to force a smile; tucking into her plate. "An unexpected surprise. Thank you."

"I know it isn't cake," he states, watching the way she sinks her fork into her crepe. "But I wasn't about to celebrate your birthday with something you prefer to make yourself."

Treize's allusion to her baking doesn't elude her. Harken really couldn't be trusted to keep his mouth shut.

Une's face twists into a frown. "It isn't my birthday."

"I'm aware," he nods. "We've fallen behind on plenty of things lately."

She takes a bite and sighs; irritated that she can tell Harken didn't cheat his pastry cream with gelatin. No shortcuts. No faults.

"I don't see the point in celebrating," she mutters, sounding sullen.

"Regardless, I shouldn't have forgotten."

He closes the distance between them and, for a second, she wonders if he intends to kiss her. Instead, he cups her cheek. His thumb finds her bottom lip, smearing away some stray cream. As he pulls away, she notices the pink tint from her lipstick swirled into the tiny dollop on his finger.

Heart pounding, she watches him lick the cream off before turning his attention back to his plate as if nothing happened.

Frustration bubbles up within her. Though she's no slouch when it comes to seduction, she can't hope to match a self-avowed rake.

And she can't say she isn't enjoying this.

Eating in silence, she tries to compose herself, knowing this is her game to lose. She should have planned better; expected a preemptive strike. Despite running behind schedule, she can still salvage this situation.

He's so smug about it, too.

There isn't much in her arsenal that can rattle him.

Winter sun bounces off her goblet of cherry tonic; ruby red glinting at her. Her eyes dart to the white linen on her lap; draped over her black skirt.

It shouldn't stain.

Though this is a maneuver she's yet to try, she's seen other ladies use this tactic to draw attention. At this time, Treize isn't looking at her, still focused on pretending he didn't make a recent advance.

Bending her elbow at just the right angle, she topples her goblet.

The sound of crystal smashing to the floor has Treize swiveling in her direction. His fork clatters against his plate.

"A little help, please?" she asks, spiking her tone with mock annoyance. Though her napkin only suffered a light splash of red, she plays up the mess by dropping it into the puddle of tonic and shattered crystal at her feet. She's determined to trounce him; no matter how much feigning carelessness irks her.

He takes his own napkin from his lap. Lifting himself from his chair, he stoops to help her dab at the barely perceptible spill on her skirt.

Before he can open his mouth to call out her sudden bout of clumsiness, she seizes the opportunity. Grabbing at his wrist, she pulls his hand beneath her voluminous skirts. He drops to his knees. The linen slips from his fingers, fluttering to the floor.

To his credit, he catches on quick, grabbing at one of her thighs. His fingernails dig into her flesh, making her whimper. She smirks when she feels him groping for the waistband of her underwear, finding nothing. It isn't long before he discovers the absence of silk between her legs.

I'm not about to let you ruin another set.

The heat of her breath caresses the shell of his ear as she leans over him to land the final blow.

"Meet me in my office," she whispers. "I want you to bend me over my desk."

Chapter Text

The swish of Une's skirts served as a clarion call; inviting Treize to follow her out. Instead, yet again, he watched as she shut the door behind her.

What was that?

She had always been pretty in that understated way most men overlooked.

Perhaps by design.

Austerity as armor had served her well during the war.

Spinster spectacles. Bows in her hair. An incredibly thorny wallflower when not operating under the auspices of the order.

She had never been a vixen. Certainly not a temptress who had made him ache to touch her.

Though Treize had heard rumors of the influence she wielded on her tour, he had assumed they were greatly exaggerated. The society pages had tried to tear her down in the most predictable way possible; blind items about sexual favors being traded for political gain. He had never been able to reconcile his image of her with the Jezebel the press painted her out to be.

Une had been an anxious wreck whenever she was in his presence. Overly-formal and paranoid. Spiked with sharp quills of doubt. She had constantly vacillated between fear and anger; always assuming the worst in people.

Except him.

Though peacetime had softened some of her rougher edges, she still had demons to banish. Just yesterday, her insecurity had her convinced that his love for her was a passing fancy.

Today, she had literally brought him to his knees.

Everything about her had overwhelmed him; the unspoken implications on her painted lips, the luscious shape of her body under her sweater, the inviting tightness of her beneath her schoolmarm skirts.

Her eyes were the color of honeyed tea, begging for tasseomancy; someone to plumb the dark depths and read what lay beneath the well-steeped bittersweet. With her consent, he could augur a future worth living.

Whispering her wish into the well of his ear, she had coaxed him toward capitulation.

He should be grateful.

She was finally opening up to him, trusting him enough to risk his rejection.

Rejecting her never even crossed my mind. She could spend hours reading me decimal digits of pi and I'd still be in her thrall.

Before now, Une had held parts of herself back, afraid he might cast her aside if she was too…human.

Someone with hopes and desires beyond what might please him.

He was still kneeling where she left him, rooted to the marble floor. All he had to do was take her; love her enough to prove that she could be her true self around him.

Rising to his feet, he pursued her.

Treize felt a strange sense of nostalgia as he stood at Une's office door. Hadn't this been how it all began? He had gone to her quarters on MO-II, half-expecting her to refuse him entry. Instead, she had…

I couldn't regret her even if I tried.

He debated whether he should knock or let himself in. After all, they were married, and she was expecting him. This was no time to be acting like some untried boy.

Une's voice beckoned from behind the door, acknowledging his presence sight unseen. "You have a very particular gait."

The sound of his shoes had announced him then.

"I thought I had forfeited your courtesy," she added, wielding his own words to chastise him. "Don't tell me modesty has finally gotten a hold of you."

"Perish the thought," he smirked, slowly turning the knob to let himself in.

Une stood in front of her desk, arms crossed. Her laptop was shut behind her, joined by loose sheets of correspondence and several folders spread out on the wooden surface. "Far be it from me to hope you might favor decency."

"You did extend quite the invitation."

"I don't recall," she lied, betrayed by the smile in her voice. "Could you enlighten me on the particulars?"

Treize closed the distance between them in slow strides. Once Une was within reach, he slid one of his hands down to the small of her back, pulling her into a half-embrace. Her crossed arms were pinned against his chest. With his other hand, he tipped her chin up. For a moment, he held her in silence, studying the calculating gleam in her eyes. Unblinking, she stared at him with obstinacy.

Eager to decimate her calm facade, he bent to seize her mouth. His hands moved to cradle the back of her head, crushing her to him. She melted into him; lips parting to permit his tongue's intrusion. Her arms dropped to her sides, body yielding as she let him take control.

Breaking the kiss, he tugged down at the collar of her sweater. Une gave him a look that threatened violent consequences if he ruined her turtleneck—distressing the stretch of the fabric with the strain of his pull; his fingernails catching on the knit. Her lipstick was smeared all over her face, nullifying any attempt at intimidation. Treize assumed she'd made a similar mess of him, streaking his mouth with pink.

Only one way to test that theory.

He kissed his way up her throat, dragging his lips over the softness of her skin. While he kept one hand at her collar—yanking it into a loose noose—he let his other hand wander down, grasping her at the hip. New marks bloomed from the suction of his mouth on her neck, joining the ones he left on her the day before. He introduced the scrape of his teeth to the onslaught, making her gasp before soothing the mild abrasion with his tongue.

Pulling his head back, he admired the colors that adorned his wife's throat. A vibrant berry shade—that had left her lips to tint his mouth—was now smudged into claret hickeys and faint red bite marks. Playing at gallantry, Treize adjusted Une's collar back into place, concealing the distinctions he had bestowed upon her.

Both his hands now gripped her hips, digging into the cotton of her skirt. He drew her to him; making certain she could feel the stiffness of his erection through his slacks. Looking up at him, Une appeared to plead with her eyes, whimpering as his hold on her tensed.

Without preamble, Treize spun her toward her desk. Complying, she bent and splayed her hands over the wooden surface to support herself. As he undid his trousers, he lamented not being able to admire her face as he took her. His hands crumpled at a substantial spill of fabric; Une's skirts rustling as he lifted them.

That licentious dining hall revelation still held true.

Treize found no silk to rip, no barrier to keep him from immediately pushing into her. Her body accepted him in one easy glide; wet and welcoming.

This was a luxury—being able to have her so soon after their last coupling, compensating for all his time spent away from her. Une cried out as he penetrated her; tone pitched somewhere between relief and longing. Driving himself deeper into her, he reached around her waist, hand ascending to squeeze at her breasts through her sweater. Her curves were soft against the contour of his palm, made to slake his lust.

She was only ever this soft and vulnerable with him.

Or so he'd like to believe.

It was irrational and conceited to assume no one could ever satisfy her as he did.

It was irrational and conceited yet he thought so anyway.

Stilling within her, Treize reveled in the snug fit of her cunt around his cock. Une pulsed tightly around him, groaning as he kept her in suspense. Beneath her skirts, his hand wandered between her legs, seeking to make her come apart. An overwrought moan escaped her once he found her epicenter; her knees quaking at his ardent touch.

Slowly, he began to move, stroking her clit with each thrust. Though he would never admit it to her, he had contemplated taking her like this on more than a few occasions. During the war, his gaze had often lingered a little too long on her backside whenever she bent to tip tokens over on their map table.

She could have knocked me over if she wanted.

At the time, Une had been the very definition of…respectable. There had been a forbidding aura about her; and he had known better than to try and slip past her defenses. Tempting as it had been to take liberties with her, he had valued their professional relationship far too much to ruin it.

Neither of them had been ready for anything resembling romance at the time.

She had eventually brought some aspects of his fantasy to life; letting him see her uniform in various seductive stages of dishevelment during their trysts on MO-II. Treize adored her in every fashion she wore; especially when she deigned to let him strip her of it.

Right now, both of them remained mostly clothed, working within the boundary she set. He endured it well enough, counting it as practice for when he eventually got the chance to whisk her away and ravish her in one of her ridiculous ball gowns.

Une writhed desperately against him, meeting his movements to try and speed his pace along. Her breathing was ragged, and he could see her begin to slump. She was holding herself up by her forearms now.

It thrilled him to give her far more than she bargained for.

Grabbing at her hips, he slowed her back down, unwilling to be done with her so soon. Sweat beaded his forehead as he persisted in his efforts, setting a languorous rhythm. He took to almost pulling out before plunging back into her with a force that rattled the desk. Pages of correspondence fluttered to the floor with each surge he sent rushing through her.

"Treize, please," she begged.

Hearing Une moan his name was enough to give him pause. He felt her quivering around him, on the brink of release. With practiced care, he shifted within her, seeking a particular angle. She stifled a whimper once he canted his hips in a way that sent sweet spasms through her body, drawing her tighter around his cock.

Une's pleasure coursed through him, building to a crescendo. She trembled with each quickening movement, beckoning him to the edge of climax. Lashings of bliss had Treize seeing sparks; almost blinding.

A sudden warmth blanketed him. Lascivious apparitions flashed before his eyes; slivers of moments that never came to pass.

He crushed the white rose on the lapel of her navy blazer; fucking her on his office floor. In the dark, faint moonlight danced in Une's gaze as he offered her apologies for a trespass he could not recall. Her pale lips silenced him with a kiss as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

The sound of Une's screams dragged him back to reality. She stumbled over the single syllable of his name, pleading with him to let her come.

Another flash.

Treize couldn't sit still. The softness of Une's body rose and fell over his lap. He bucked up into her as he tore at the slit in her short navy pencil skirt. Kissing up his neck, she stopped to whisper words of praise and gratitude in his ear; thanking him for not leaving her at the moon's mercy.

A low groan ripped itself from his throat. He rammed into her, spiraling out of control. Glimmering silver confetti rapidly drifted into his line of sight; sentient static freed from the confines of a buzzing screen. The storm consumed him in a wash of white.

Pink ribbons and strands of chestnut hair tangled in his fingers as Une's braided buns came loose in his hands. Though she was kneeling before him, he had relinquished control over to her. Her tongue swirled over the tip of his erection, teasing him. Squirming in his seat, he swallowed a groan. Her glossy fingernails dug into his thigh; a silent rebuke. Inch by inch, he watched his cock sink into her mouth, taking him to the hilt. Turbulence shook the plane around them yet her head continued to bob between his legs; unrelenting. Still fresh from a recent kill, drops of blood stained her glasses as she glanced up at him to seek his approval. Drops of blood soon joined by…

The vision faded as Treize spilled into his wife; collapsing atop her, pinning her facedown on her desk. She followed him over the edge; her climax reverberating through him, making his knees buckle as the last of his strength poured into her.

Beneath him, Une gasped like she was coming ashore after battling the tide. She moaned softly as Treize lifted himself off her, pulling out. Her skirts fell to cover the stickiness of his seed running down her thighs.

Treize quickly tugged his trousers back on. He slung one of Une's arms over his shoulders, steadying her.

On shaky legs, Une began to hold herself up. A self-satisfied smile played on her berry-stained mouth as she turned to look at her husband. "Was everything to your liking, sir?"